


take this dawn

by saretus



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, sort of lkmfskm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 03:42:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17134301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saretus/pseuds/saretus
Summary: They would have grown old together.





	take this dawn

**Author's Note:**

> secret santa gift exchange for [petite-starchild](https://petite-starchild.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! prompt was something gore related and i tried my best to stick to a theme that would give gore. hopefully it's still algoods!

**i.**

It’s not as bloody as Ignis thought it would be, although he thinks it deserves more than the quiet sounds Noct makes as Ignis dabs at the grazes with cloth soaked in antiseptic. Whenever he pulls back, he scans the flaking skin, the thin scratches dragging diagonally over his knees: deep enough to draw blood, but not enough to be serious.

“Are you alright, Your Highness?” Ignis asks for the umpteenth time. He wishes Noct would be a bit more vocal, but he supposes the quiet sniffles is all he’ll get ever since the incident with Her Royal Majesty.

As he expects, Noct gives a small nod and doesn’t say anything else. Ignis sighs but busies himself with a large bandage. It will have to be enough to clot the blood for now until he can find a nurse in the medical wing.

“Be more careful next time,” Ignis chides softly, but doesn’t receive a reply. Noct doesn’t cling to his arm either, and Ignis just settles for walking beside him.

**ii.**

“I’m fine.”

Ignis can barely keep the ire from his voice when Noct leans in close enough for him to want to smack him away. Irritation from his trauma, he knows, and he tries to reign in his defensiveness. Noct certainly doesn’t deserve it, not with the way he looks at Ignis with such concern in his sky-blue gaze.

“Yeah?” Noct asks quietly and Ignis takes a deep breath in through his nose, then out through his mouth. He shifts his hips so that Noct still won’t notice the gauze over his side, but he supposes he can’t hide the wince that shows on his features.

“Yes,” Ignis says, and flinches when Noct puts a hand on his forearm. He tries to school his features once more, but Noct tugs at him gently. The force in the motion—or lack thereof—is enough to make Ignis’ defences crumble and he turns the way Noct directs him with small nudges. “Noct.”

“My fault,” Noct mumbles when he finally sees the stark white of Ignis’ bandages. Ignis opens his mouth to protest but Noct quickly adds, “what did they do?”

‘Nothing’, Ignis wishes to say, though the sad, knowing look Noct gives him is enough to make him reassess his choice of words. He swallows. Tries again. “They inserted a few nails into my side, as if I were a machine.” Even now, he’s struggling not to clench his teeth in fear of remembering the event in it’s entirety: the way rough hands clutched at his limbs, the way laughter echoed in his ears, the way the blunt edge of a metallic, rusty nail pressed hard against his skin before pressing harder and harder until he felt something give then sharp pain and pain and pain again when they twisted it into him roughly, forceful enough to grate at bone—

He curls his fingers into fists and tries to focus on how Noct looks rather than the _way_ he’s looking at him. “It’s fine now, though.”

“I had a look at the report,” Noct says, and clutches his forearm tighter, “it said you’d been poisoned from it or something.”

“Yes, well,” Iggy starts, smiling thinly, “it’s fortunate we’ve magically-enhanced potions, courtesy of His Majesty.”

“Yeah.” Noct stares at Ignis’ hip a moment longer before moving to sit on his uninjured side. Ignis feels Noct’s warmth press against him, feels the way Noct gingerly wraps an arm around his waist, and slowly allows himself to relax.

He hopes it will be enough to chase away the night terrors.

**iii.**

“Please stop.”

It’s a whispered plea but it’s a plea nonetheless and Noct gives him a look whilst wiping the blood from his chin. Ignis feels the muscles of Noct’s back shifting under his hand as the prince sits back in his arms, and Ignis flushes slightly when Noct decides to lean against him. Noct’s warm. Ignis is constantly scared of when he won’t be anymore.

“You know we need it,” Noct mumbles, turning his face into Ignis’ shoulder, and Ignis lets him, shifting to make it more comfortable for Noct. He glances over at the camp a few metres away. Prompto’s still photographing the landscape and Gladio’s gone into the tent, Ignis assumes.

“At least discard one method. Perhaps only using the Royal Arms will be enough,” Ignis begins, voice hushed like the other two might hear them, and Noct gives a shrug.

“You think?” Noct looks up at him and the tired smile he wears tugs at Ignis’ heart. “We’re facing more enemies than before.”

“Then we’ll fight harder on your behalf.” Ignis clenches his fist, out of sight of Noct’s eyes, and tries to still his distress in order to not cause Noct more. “I’ll defeat them with strategy. You’ll not have to tire yourself out to the point of near death.”

“You won’t sleep, though,” Noct mutters, tucking his face away again in his shoulder. Ignis almost leans in to hear him better but he catches himself. “You already stay up late thinking of plans and keeping up-to-sate with things, don’t you?”

Ignis swallows. He hadn’t realized Noct caught onto that. “It’s my job.”

Noct sighs. He doesn’t say anything.

“I need to do it,” Ignis admits after a moment. “I need you safe, Noct.”

Noct stays silent. Then— “you can just be you, y’know.”

Ignis stills, staring at him. “Noct…”

Noct shrugs, turns his face into his shoulder and wraps his arms around Ignis’ waist. Ignis holds him in turn, tighter than ever. “Just want you by my side.”

Ignis’ breath hitches. Unexpected emotion rises in him at the words, so much so that he almost chokes on it, but he swallows hard and pretends he doesn’t feel tears prickling at the edges of his eyes.

“Always, Noct.”

**iv.**

Noct will die.

He lies silently on the bed: a knee up, an arm over his eyes, and he knows they are closed. It feels that way to him, and even if he does open them, they certainly won’t show any different. A migraine throbs between his eyes, far more prominent than the ones he used to suffer from in Insomnia, and he prays the tenseness of his entire body is not showing. Noct is watching him, he’s certain of it. Ignis only wishes that Noct would focus on himself, though.

The vision shows Noct will fall, disintegrate. The vision shows that he will die to bring back the light.

How absurd, Ignis thinks, rare bitterness arising in him, an utter _hatred_ for Noct’s fate; Noct’s sacrifice, his upbringing—they all knew. His father, Lady Lunafreya… a lamb for slaughter, in a way. He wanted to make a difference, to change Noct’s fate, by donning the Ring of the Lucii.

How he so _wished_ to have saved Noct.

He’d failed, though. Against the gods, what could he do?

“Hey.”

The bed dips. A body lays itself close to Ignis’ side and he forces himself to move, ignoring the worsening of his headache, and curls around Noct. Noct has the advantage of being able to _see_ , though, and instead Noct nudges him, moving to wrap his arms around Ignis’ head and pull him close.

“Stop thinking so hard,” Noct mumbles, and Ignis can hear the weariness in his voice. He wishes Noct would stop that. He wishes he could see Noct, if only to kiss away the frown that wrinkles his brow, to caress away the tightness of his jaw. He tries to do so now, lifting a hand to feel along Noct’s shoulder to his jawline, but Noct catches his hand instead and holds it tightly. Ignis clings to that, lets play his fingers along Noct’s knuckles, before shakily holding fast.

“Are you okay?” Ignis asks softly, kissing Noct’s chest. The material is smooth against his lips, so he turns his head to listen to Noct’s heart instead.

“I was gonna ask you that,” Noct responds, and Ignis feels the rumble of it. Noct brings their hands between them, and Ignis kisses the exterior of Noct’s palm.

He considers his migraine and remembers the way an older Noct disintegrated into nothing. “Shall I answer for both of us, then?”

“I think we already know,” Noct mumbles, kissing Ignis’ forehead, and Ignis holds him tighter.

**v.**

“Don’t.”

The word isn’t choked out like Ignis had imagined it would be. It’s short, direct. Almost casual in its irritational lilt as it accompanies his motion of shrugging off a supportive hand. It’s Gladio or Prompto, he knows, but he hadn’t felt the presence long enough to ascertain. All he can think of now is the steps ascending to the throne, the heavy weight of _Your Majesty_ lingering in the air, the silence that brackets the dawn that now rises.

At the cost of Noct’s life.

He ascends slowly, steadily, already knowing the path in his memory. There are no footsteps that follow, but Ignis doesn’t care. Right now, his ears strain to detect any signs of life from the body that’s sure to be on the throne.

There is none.

He comes to a stop. Before him, he knows, is Noct’s body, slumped over the Sword of the Father. Slowly, he kneels, and pulls the visual from his memories of the vision to know where he must place his hands.

The ground is hard beneath him. When he slides his hands over Noct’s knees, his skin is as cold as the marble he kneels upon. His breath hitches. The warmth is gone.

“You asked me if I could feel the dawn when it came,” Ignis says softly, and shuffles forward on his knees so that he’s pressed against Noct’s seated form. He feels Noct’s knees press into his stomach as he leans forward, hands finding Noct’s on the armrests of the throne, and almost breaks down then and there when those fingers, cold as night, do not respond.

He keeps his left hand on Noct’s and moves his right to his King’s chest, lightly tracing the flat of the blade. He feels the blood, clotted and cold now, from where it’d leaked steadily from the wound on Noct’s chest. It’s so cold.

“I don’t, Noct,” Ignis admits, and raises his hand to tighten around the blade. The metal bites readily into his palm and just above the insides of his knuckles. He feels the thin slice and the drip of his own blood, warm and flowing.

He slides his palm against the flat of it. He imagines the blood spreading easily across it, a dark sheen across the blessed blade. He imagines his palm, his skin, wrecked and mangled from the careless handling, but decides that doesn’t matter.

“I don’t,” he whispers again, and bows his head, trying to hold onto the blade tighter even when he feels the blade drag against bone, even when he tries to tug it out from Noct’s body, this cursed thing that _killed_ him. “Noct, I’m sorry, I don’t…”

He tries adjusting his grip, but that ends up with the sword slicing into the juncture between his thumb and forefinger instead. He wants the sword out of Noct. He _needs_ it out.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps out, and tries again and again until he’s shaking and trying not to sob. “I’m so sorry, Noct—”

_I failed you._


End file.
